


Who Was And Was Not Myself

by solonggaybowser



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Blood, Coming Out, Domestic, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Transphobia, Misgendering, Supportive Siblings, bioshock infinite spoilers (if anyone still minds), followed by proper gendering, gender euphoria, self-care, trans male robert lutece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solonggaybowser/pseuds/solonggaybowser
Summary: Rosalind meets Robert, and there are questions.Robert finds himself. (Is finding, has already found, will continue to find.)





	1. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short preface: i had originally written the first chapter intending to leave it as a standalone fic. a few weeks later, i started to write more of the story, finding it helped sort out my own thoughts and feelings. and since it was written, well, why not post it? get some Visible Trans Content out there.
> 
> so, chapter 1 is from rosalind's perspective and mostly just sets the premise; the remaining chapters focus on robert and his experiences, which are based off my own... and which i absolutely do not claim to be universal to or representative of those of all trans people in all places throughout all history (that last bit especially -- there's gonna be a lot of anachronistically modern attitudes on gender here). the trans experience is a rich and infinitely complex tapestry, in which i am but a single minuscule thread

#### October the 8th, 1893

When Robert and the child crossed through that Tear and Rosalind saw for the first time the face of her trans-dimensional correspondent, she had not quite expected to feel as though she were peering into a mirror.

There were, of course, questions, but they could wait. And once Robert swooned and bled and _bled_ , they _had_ to wait.

Reviving her was a harrowing task. The bloodstains, the transfusion, the uncharacteristic anxiety. But it was at last the universal constant of music that brought her back, a flush returning to her skin and lucidity to her eyes.

Rosalind approached her bed, relieved to see no bloody convulsions but instead gentle motions of awakening. She watched Robert pull her arms free from the blanket and rub drowsily at her face, and she pondered what a proper introduction ought to be, after all that had transpired.

But it was Robert who spoke first, her voice a touch deeper than Rosalind’s own. "Do they know of me?" she asked, still frail, yet revealing some sort of concern.

"Not yet. It wouldn’t do to present two Rosalinds to the public." A pointless clarification: if it was painfully obvious to one of them, then so it was to the other. Speaking in person to someone so like-minded would take some adjusting.

Regardless, Robert humored the pointless response with one of her own, "Certainly not," and something in her own statement seemed to rouse her further. She struggled to sit up while clutching the blanket to just below her neck. "Certainly... not," she repeated, as Rosalind reached to rearrange the pillows to provide a more comfortable sitting position.

Robert settled back down and sighed, winded by the small exertion. Her eyes shut for a moment, then opened to gaze directly, intently at Rosalind. "With regard to this matter, I have a plan. I was going to inform you, but..." Her focus wavered as she frowned slightly. "I... seem not to remember why I hadn't..."

The lapse in memory did not especially worry Rosalind, who knew it was most likely due to crossing sickness. Robert, too, did not concern herself with it for long, more pressing matters being at hand. "But never mind that. The plan is such: I will alter myself to befit a 'Robert', and I will be received as your brother."

It could be done, Rosalind knew, but the question that followed was reflexive, stemming from the eternal pursuit of the most elegant solution. "Would it not be simpler to live as twin sisters?"

The reply was immediate: "It would not be simpler; it would be _impossible_. There is no other way." One part assertion, one part entreaty.

Despite their identical genes and their uncannily similar life experiences, there were divergences of various sorts. Robert was and was not Rosalind. This was, in actuality, a blessing, for what benefit was a collaborator who thought in lockstep; what knowledge could be gained by merely talking to oneself?

And so, they diverged once again: what had been a passing fancy to Rosalind, was something much weightier to Robert. It dawned on Rosalind just what her proposal of Robert entering Columbia and shedding a previous life _meant_ to him.

"Very well, dear brother. How shall I help you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't go with the canon that the twins differ by one chromosome here, but it's worth noting that in canon it's still extremely possible for exactly one lutece to be trans -- one could be XX and the other XY with [AIS](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Androgen_insensitivity_syndrome), to give an example


	2. The Name

The next day saw Robert out of bed.

It would, perhaps, have been prudent to remain there. If he hadn't suspected this before he extracted himself from under the covers and felt the room sway as soon as he was upright, then he certainly must have put it together when he fell in the hallway and, to his embarrassment, an alarmed Rosalind hurried to his side.

If he had to lie in bed a minute longer, alone with his fragmented, half-extraneous memories, doing nothing more than the absolute minimum required to exist as a human being, he thought he would go mad, he explained to her. Catching onto her growing horror, he then began a meek suggestion that, in light of new information, he return to his room and resume convalescing quietly—

"Oh, don't talk such rubbish," she groused, slinging his arm around her shoulders and hefting both of them up to their feet. "What was I thinking, leaving you like that? _I_ would have _already_ gone mad!"

So it was that Robert was brought to the parlor sofa, and tea and scones were brought to him.

"Have you everything you need?" Rosalind asked as she poured tea for the both of them.

"Everything and more; the change of scenery alone is doing me a world of good. Thank you." He took a scone and bit into it.

"I would want no less for myself. The same applies to you, brother."

 _Brother._ He still resembled her far more than he was comfortable with, yet she had immediately taken to calling him her brother. The tea warmed him; this did, too.

"There is one more thing I would like to request." He paused to prepare himself while she regarded him attentively, a scone in her own mouth. "Brother" was good, but there was a practical concern to be accounted for. "Call me 'Robert', at least occasionally. I should... adjust to my own name."

"Certainly, Robert."

The name was foreign in his mouth and ears. It was never meant to be his name; it had originated as an alias a mere forty-six days ago, when for the first time Lutece fields from two different dimensions tried to simultaneously manipulate the same atom—once communication had been established, Rosalind had demanded a given name from him after, presumably, the shock of receiving his surname had worn off, and, well... it had been nothing more than an accidental flick of a switch, or rather, thirty consecutive, meaningfully paced, accidental flicks.

The satisfaction that resulted was due to not so much the transmitted name itself, but more that he had easily— _accidental_ as it had been—deceived the person on the other end into thinking "Robert" was a man. The joke, it turned out, was on him. (It was not a bad joke, when all was said and done.) "Robert" was, indeed, a man, and he became... Robert.

"Is it a good name for me?" he heard himself ask.

A slight tilt of her head. "You are unsure of your own name?"

"Well, it's nearly as novel to me as it is to you. No... not nearly; exactly."

She considered the implications of this statement. Naturally, she figured it out quickly. "You made it up on the spot? Small wonder you're unsure. Well then, why not choose a different name?"

"Why not, indeed," he mused, and sipped his tea. "No, I know: because I can't imagine what would work better. 'Robert' may be a product of happenstance, but in my eyes one male name is about as good as any other."

"I see. So, you'll keep it?"

"I suppose, yes."

"Hm. I'm happy to have helped." Half cheeky, half sincere.

Robert settled into the sofa—but not twenty seconds later he leaned towards her again, brow knit together. "But it's not too _derivative_ , is it?"

That made her laugh softly into her teacup. " _Brother_ ," she said, with amused reproach.

He bit back a snicker and fixed her with an expectant look. As dryly as he could muster, he said, "Well?"

"We're twins; it's derivative _enough_."

He grinned and nodded and said, simply, "Okay."

"Okay?" asked Rosalind, watching him carefully, to confirm that the matter had been truly settled.

It hadn't, but for the time being he had no more objections to voice. He repeated, "Okay," and finished his tea.

It was Rosalind who later reopened the subject.

The following morning, she handed him the day's newspaper and said, "Here, take a look at this. Perhaps seeing the name printed will induce some conclusive emotions."

The paper was open to a short article on his arrival in Columbia. It reported what the Luteces had together fabricated, that Rosalind had recently reconciled with her estranged twin brother and invited him to work with her; Robert accepted but fell seriously ill shortly upon arriving, and for his health he would be housebound for an estimate of a month. ( _It's not so far from the truth,_ he had thought.) There were also a few words on Robert himself: brilliant physicist, English-born gentleman, all in all apparently so like his sister that one had to wonder what could have possibly divided them before. The Columbian citizenry awaited his recovery with great anticipation.

He scanned the article again as he drank his coffee absently. Robert _existed_ , not only in the confines of the laboratory but also in the context of the world at large. Brother, gentleman...

"Any luck?" Rosalind prompted from across the table, noting his focused expression.

"Why, they're talking about _me_."

"I should hope so. Who else would be my brother?"

"I mean, I'm—really..." He shook his head, smiling nervously, and glanced up at his sister. "This is really happening, isn't it?" His smile faded and he set the newspaper down. "I can't help... feeling afraid."

"Afraid?" Her chin rested against the palm of her hand. "Of something in particular?"

He stared into his coffee as he tried to find the words. It was hard to explain, made all the more frustrating by how, being a physics prodigy, he was not used to finding complex topics actually hard to explain. The fear weighed on his mind yet seemed impossible to grasp—not just the mundane, quantifiable fear of _disgrace_ , but the fear of, of... the path on which he suddenly found himself, one he couldn't bring himself to even conceive for a very, very long time, but now there was no turning back, no other way...

Rosalind leaned forward and placed a hand in front of him, distracting him from his thoughts. Her solemn eyes met his. " _Whatever_ happens, you _are_ my brother."

"I am," he affirmed softly. Whatever happens.

He was a man. He had thought it, and it was _his_ , and no force in the universe could ever take it away from him.

He offered another smile, small but a little more confident. His eyes drifted back to the newspaper, settling on his name. It looked... quite agreeable, in fact. "All right. I'll carry on as 'Robert'."

The humor returned to his sister's voice. "Are you sure? Really sure?"

"Sure enough."


	3. The Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which robert is a young adult Disaster.
> 
> this chapter contains drinking, specifically drinking to cope with negative emotions, and mild swearing

The night that he first contacted Rosalind had started off miserably, as many of his nights (as well as evenings, afternoons, and mornings) in then-recent memory had.

Once again he sequestered himself in his basement, where he had been conducting his research since removing himself (and, surreptitiously, several pieces of lab equipment) from his former university. A suboptimal environment, to put it politely, for studying quantum mechanics, but at least there he was free from the pain of _other people_ , from their dullness, their vapidity, their... acknowledgment of his existence.

No. The only person left who could disturb him then was himself. And that night, he was drinking, so this was doubly true.

Slumped over his desk, clutching a beer bottle for dear life, he turned a baleful eye on his latest invention, a horrible conglomerate of wires and scrap metal, components strewn over the room and most available flat surfaces. The centerpiece was a glass cylinder containing a single atom, entangled in light, fixed in space. Despite appearances, it was, unquestionably, a scientific marvel.

And bloody _useless_.

Here it was, the discovery of a lifetime, and it hadn't done a blasted thing for him. As he stewed in his growing anger, he toggled the power switch rapidly on and off, watching the tube flicker through narrowed eyes. This was the kind of work he was doing, yet he was _here_ , languishing in his basement, drinking in his undergarments? How could this be? What was...

Lord, was he _wrong_? After everything, was he truly not cut out to be a woman of science? But if a woman could do whatever a man could (a few biological details notwithstanding), what held him back? What made him feel so...?

He gave the switch a final shove and, exhaling, he leaned back in his chair. Ultimately, he had no real desire to damage his creation; it was simply that all his restless, deeply frustrated energy had been funneled into constructing the wretched thing, and now that that was done... what was he to do?

He chugged the last of his beer and inspected the label unhappily. Wasn't alcohol supposed to be a depressant? So far it only seemed to agitate him more. Well... it wasn't a strong drink, so the effect on him would plausibly have been diminished.

Obviously the thing to try now was to drink more.

He went upstairs and returned to the basement with additional beers in hand, and at first he thought little of the light emanating from the glass tube. In his tipsy negligence, he must have left the machine on when he left to retrieve more alcohol. Then he approached his desk and the control panel on it. The switch was set to "off".

He stared at the switch, then at the tube. Without any action from him, it dimmed. Then brightened again.

He would never sober up so quickly again in his life.

* * *

_TELL ME. WHAT IS IT LIKE, BEING ROBERT LUTECE?_

Upon decoding the message left by the newly-attached printing mechanism, he first scoffed to himself, "As if I would know."

In the silence that, reasonably, followed, a thought occurred to him: _But wouldn't I_ like _to know?_

He sat rigid in his chair, staring into nothing, transfixed.

_Couldn't I actually be...?_

Years and years of strange, indescribable, _unthinkable_ feelings kept pent up, observable only obliquely, in the edges of his vision or by the shadows they cast. And suddenly, just by chance...

_Is it that simple?_

No, this couldn't be right. It could not. He already worked in what was traditionally a man's field, attired himself in masculine-styled fashions; what was the point of doing more? Shouldn't that be enough? Certainly it had been for the other Rosalind, who oversaw the construction of a shining city in the sky and suffered no ridiculous crises of gender.

(Well, that might have been assuming too much. But, one of them did introduce themselves using a distinctly male name, and it hadn't been her, so he decided to carry on, cautiously, with this assumption.)

But it _wasn't_ enough, for god's sake! And as strange and as— _aberrant_ as it felt... at long last, something about himself made a glimmer of sense.

Fine, so it made sense; that was all well and good—but what _followed_ from that? Merely arriving at this point had been an ordeal; there assuredly awaited another, greater by whole orders of magnitude, should he attempt to change himself to his satisfaction.

But _damn it_ , why should he feel this way now, of all times, of all things?! He had been dauntless in the face of a prejudiced, disdainful society, yet this was what made him lose heart? Unapologetically proud of all that set him apart from the rest of the world, yet this was what he felt he must conceal, what he was _ashamed_ of?

He dragged a hand down his face, a groan rumbling in his throat. He should have saved his beer for this.

Once his arm fell slack, the strip of paper sitting on his desk caught his attention again. Never mind all that for now; Rosalind was expecting an answer.

What to tell her?

He wondered what she expected, or hoped, to hear. If she knew of his troubles, she might well judge him harshly, as he judged himself. Though, he had already proven himself useful to her scientific endeavors, and it seemed they had established a mutual respect and understanding. Or had they? It could be difficult to tell from text alone. But if he was her and she was him, then she wouldn't bother attempting a thoughtful conversation with someone unworthy.

And there was also the fact that if they could one day meet, as they hypothesized... then he should keep shallow the pit of lies out of which he'd have to extract himself.

So. He would hazard the truth, but perhaps not the whole truth. Frankly, he himself first needed to work out what the whole truth was.

_UNFAVOURABLE. I ENGINEERED NO COLUMBIA. I WORK WITH LIMITED RESOURCES, NO OUTSIDE FUNDING._

The response was swift; she must have been waiting on him. _THEN WHERE DO YOU WORK?_

_MY HOME BASEMENT._

_AND IT IS UNDER THESE CONDITIONS THAT YOU GENERATED A LUTECE FIELD?_

_YES._

_REMARKABLE._

The fear eased. One fear. Slightly, just enough.

* * *

In the dead of night, Robert lay, unhappily, awake in bed. A handkerchief to his bleeding nose, a dull ache in his head.

His health had been improving so greatly over the past few days, too. Progress is so rarely linear; one should consider oneself lucky if it is even monotonic, he mused.

And in the fog that had rolled into his head, he began to doubt himself. _Him_ self.

He was a man; nothing could take that from him.

Could he himself relinquish it?

He had thought it, and it was his.

What was left to question?

Sighing, Robert folded the handkerchief over to a clean patch and pressed it again to his nose. He had committed himself to a certain course of action; what good would doubting do him now? What good had it ever done him?

But he felt wrong, just as he felt right. And if he felt wrong at all... perhaps he was making a mistake.

Then he remembered, in sufficient clarity, the woeful days in his basement; the unease at the university; and in his childhood the odd, ineffable feeling of, he knew now, having been forced to make a choice, unaware that he was forced, unaware that he could object. Goodness, what was actually significant was that he felt _right_ at all. Over two decades of being someone else could not so easily be swept away. Not quickly, anyway.

He drew the cloth from himself; it came away unbloodied.

He would adjust. It would take time, but he would. His body to a new universe, his mind and heart to a new life.


	4. The Reflection

"Brother, I've returned!" Rosalind called out, from somewhere.

The specifics were lost on Robert, who just began to stir awake. When had he fallen asleep, he wondered... He found himself in the drawing room, slumped in an armchair, which was familiar; what was new was that a light blanket had been draped over him, and the book he had been reading before he dozed off was placed atop a nearby end table.

"Robert?" A subtle echo he was now alert enough to pick up on indicated his sister was likely at the foot of the foyer stairs.

"Yes?" He sat up and cracked his neck. (How fortunate that Rosalind had cut his hair the day before, so that today he did not have to rearrange a mess of displaced hairpins.)

There was a quiet, "Oh," before she appeared in the doorway. "You were still asleep?"

Again he glanced down at himself, the blanket over his lap, before replying, "An astute observation, sister." She gave him a look; he smiled in return. "And you? You've been out?"

"Yes. Allow me to present the evidence."

He was neatly folding the blanket when she reentered the room, hauling in several shopping bags. "What's all this, now?" he asked, setting it aside.

"Why, it's your new wardrobe. Or, at least, an adequate start of one—"

"Wait, you've already—? Really?"

"—later, on your own time, you'll of course have to—well, I hadn't wanted to interrupt your rest, so I thought, if I had a free afternoon to myself, I might as well have it done."

"Ah, I understand. Once I'd fallen unresponsive, you had to find some other method of entertaining yourself."

Rosalind shot him another look, this one drier. "Oh, don't throw around your words so carelessly."

Robert chuckled as he stood up, and he moved to examine just what she had obtained for him; it took a cursory glance for him to realize there really was a considerable amount of stuff. The re-gathering of a great many worldly possessions was not actually unusual for new arrivals to the city, who could only take so much with them onto those sky-bound rockets. Knowing this, he turned to her with concern of a different sort. "It must have been horrid."

"You can't imagine," she groaned, and then corrected herself, "Or perhaps you can. Perhaps you are the only person in this reality who _can_ imagine."

He regarded her acquisitions in short, pensive silence. " _I_ should have done this."

"Oh? How would you? You're currently busy recovering from a severe illness."

"I would have... gone out as you."

"But that..." She grimaced at the mere suggestion. "Then the experience would have been immeasurably worse. Not to mention you're unfamiliar with Columbia and her locales, the unique logistics thereof, the people... (Though I admit I, too, know little of that last item.) No, Robert, even factoring in my thorough displeasure, this was indeed the optimal solution."

"Your reasoning is perfectly sound..." He intoned as if with the intent to continue speaking, but his voice trailed off without picking back up.

Catching on, she prompted him, "Yet?"

"Yet, you have done so much for me," he said, at a thoughtful pace. "I only wish that I could somehow... reciprocate."

"But, you _have_ been, since that fateful day we first spoke."

"Have I truly?"

"Yes. You see, I... I had been, for as long as I can remember... terribly lonely. I thought there existed not a soul to whom I could relate, and I... essayed to convince myself..." A brief, frustrated sigh, her gaze falling to the floor. "It is laborious to even describe this."

"There's no need." Though her confession was cut short, the feelings it evoked were keenly familiar. "I daresay this is a secret I've been keeping for my whole life."

She snapped her head up, eyes alit with a certain excitement. "That's precisely it! We're on the same page, aren't we? Every other person I've met heretofore was located in an entirely different library. All we had to do was, um, meet our alternate selves."

"That's only reasonable," he assured with a soft grin, "for who could ever understand us but us?"

"Right." Immediately, she followed with a flippant, "Or just _stand_ us."

Robert laughed, a sincerely delighted sound; Rosalind beamed at his merriment. As much unhappiness as his isolation had caused him, by his sister's side it all felt distant enough that he could laugh about it.

"So," she continued, assuming a slightly more serious manner, "the point I am trying to make is... that your presence so enriches my life. I call you 'brother' in earnest, you know; it was never a mere cover story. And to see my brother, my dearest friend approach his truer self is reward enough for any trial I should endure."

She spoke stiffly—he suspected he was unused to expressing affection like this, or in any manner, just as he was—but her warmth and sincerity shone through all the same. Also unused to receiving such expression, Robert had glanced elsewhere, arms folded, smiling meekly. "Well. That's quite appreciated, sister... to say the least..."

He looked back to her when she prodded his elbow with a hand clutching a shopping bag. "Now go on," she encouraged him gently.

His smile broadened, and he took the offered bag and glanced about himself at the remaining items, briefly forgotten. "All of this is for me, is that correct?"

"Yes. It might appear a great amount, but it actually isn't much more than the basics. Although, that does include a few accessories you may appreciate," she said, taking out a flat cap. She hesitated, and then perched it atop his head, purposefully awkward.

"Ah, splendid," he grumbled when the brim covered his eyes. He adjusted the hat to actually fit around his head and noticed Rosalind looking pleased with herself. "This was your _true_ reward, wasn't it? Making me look marginally buffoonish?"

"That was simply a bonus I saw an opportunity to collect."

He shook his head and went about gathering the rest of the merchandise. "You _must_ care about me if you're even bothering to wind me up."

"Oh, naturally."

They exchanged small, genuine smiles before he left the parlor. "I shall return shortly."

A peculiar feeling came over him as he went upstairs, and it only intensified when in his own room he examined the clothing more closely. _His_ clothing—all of it was his, actual men's clothes that were physically in his possession. It wasn't too long before he changed out of the athletic wear he had been borrowing from Rosalind and into a new outfit that felt strange and yet indisputably _correct_ on him. He tied a scarf around his neck, fixed the sleeves of his jacket, and looked down at himself, satisfied.

A hand on the doorknob, he was about to exit his chambers to go show his sister when he remembered he ought to check his attire in the mirror first—as a sensible person, which he usually was, should. But only a few steps across the room and he wavered, regarding warily the corner where his mirror stood, turned in such a way to minimize accidental glimpses of his reflection.

Throughout his life, it had never been something he enjoyed viewing (notwithstanding the good days during which he derived a measure of satisfaction from dressing to the nines). He thought he had realized exactly why that was, but in more recent days he was losing hope that a mere haircut and change of clothes could do much to turn his situation around. Especially considering how the former turned out: his sister did all she could, but with neither of them having any significant hairdressing experience, the only thing she could do was shear his hair close to the scalp. His head being so unburdened certainly felt agreeable, but he could not say the same of how it looked.

Nervously, Robert hovered by the mirror. It seemed his absurd, lingering fear that he was not handsome enough to be a man was coming true.

_Absurd_. He must focus on that.

There was no physical law, he reminded himself, that defined femininity or masculinity. What mattered, what he could in fact _observe_ was the happiness granted by a certain fit of clothing, by folding his arms nearer to his body, by each and every instance his name was spoken.

He stepped forward and watched himself come into view.

The very first thing that caught his eye was that the flat cap was quite an improvement. It softened the dramatic change that his haircut had been, not to mention it was stylish. He smiled to himself; of course fashion was yet another metric for which he and Rosalind were on the same wavelength.

The tiny motion of his own smile drew away his gaze, and the rest of himself became apparent.

His whole outfit was an improvement. Standing before him was a young, well-dressed man typical of contemporary American society. Who did look younger than he really was, and whose build was, well, somewhat flimsy. But it was all within known human variation, wasn't it? He straightened his back, brought his heels closer together, lifted his chin a smidge, and that was better still. Not perfect, but undeniably better.

He blinked once, twice, then pressed a tentative finger to the glass. This was really him.

His eyes locked with those of his image. Not even two months past, he might have recoiled or turned away, out of a displeasure he could never quite identify but that seemed more a part of him than the marrow of his bones, more immutable than the forces that held his constituent atoms together. Today, he stared into his own clear blue eyes and knew that he could— _did_ ease the burden of inhabiting his body.

He was Robert Lutece; really, he always had been. But for the first time, Robert felt that he was... himself.

He experienced a moment of quiet elation—broken by a sigh.

Did it ever suffice to just be oneself in this world? Was it even sustainable in the long term to be himself? It was one thing to merely attire himself in menswear, but to actually thrive as a man, living in a society that could never understand... that was a world apart.

But what else could he be, that would not smother his very spirit? There was no other way.

Arms crossed and eyes downcast, he slouched against the wall. Was that how it was, then? Was he simply condemned, no matter what?

Hmm.

He had already crossed worlds to reach this point, hadn't he? Figuratively _and_ literally, for good measure. Even his outfit, mundane when considered in isolation, was the result of a feat he had not too long ago thought impossible. Defying all tradition, all conventional wisdom that had bound him, he had created, discovered, seized his own identity. By his own power, in his sole possession.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was all making a coincidental sort of sense: he sought to learn the secrets of the universe, but was there not a universe within him as well?

A knock at the door, gentle as it was, pierced the silence and jolted Robert from his thoughts. "Brother? What's your status?" asked Rosalind from the other side.

"I'm ready; just a moment." He pushed himself from the wall and moved to open the door.

She lit up once she saw him, remarking, "My word, you're looking sharp."

"Why, were you expecting anything less?" he teased gently.

"Of course not, but now it is, scientifically, confirmed."

"Ah, yes. Rigorously tested." They shared a quiet laugh before he went on, "Had I really been so long that you saw fit to come fetch me?"

"It was longer than I'd expected for the given set of combinations of shirt and trouser. I wondered what tragic fate might have befallen you."

"Well, not to worry, sister. I was only lost in thought."

"Oh? Anything you would like to discuss?"

"Oh, there's no need; the matter is resolved."

"Well, should you change your mind, or should fresh matters come up... I shall always listen."

He nodded and smiled warmly, knowing that whatever should happen in his uncertain future, he would always be her brother and she his sister. "As I shall for you. Thank you."

In the vast expanse of the multiverse, there was a space for Robert, just as he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've read this whole thing to the end then i'd really like to say thank you! a lot of myself comes through in this fic, and i realize this is, well, an unusual avenue for this sort of self-expression, but i've been sitting on a lot of complicated feelings for years without trying to talk about them and sort them out. so, i dunno, it means something to me that you've given this fic a chance. well take care y'all


End file.
